What Is Murder?
by Lord Brandybuck
Summary: 1847, A young aristocrat is on trial for murder. Using his swiftly dwindling influence he has sent a copy of his personal memoirs to each member of the jury, in the hopes that they will deliver him a lighter sentence. It will be your task as a member of said jury to enter the mind of a killer and decide whether or not you truly wish to see him hang...
1. Chapter 1

Hello there! Just a short author's note to tell you a little about the story, which may I add is my very first (grins stupidly). I thought I'd write a short summary in order for you to get the gist of things so without further ado:

Summary-

When a young aristocrat living in Victorian Wales finds himself coerced into a betrothal, he is not pleased; desperately trying to rid himself of his unwanted fiancé things soon take a turn for the worst, and he presently finds that he has blood on his hands. Legally speaking can he possibly avoid the hangman's noose? Well we shall soon find out...

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CHAPTER ONE

_My dear member of the jury,_

_What is murder? The wilful killing of another? The tragic result of two lives that are far from equal? Or the erasure of a stain on the very fabrication of society, I shall let you be the judge of that. For it is your judgement now that will determine my fate and the ending of this little verbal rendezvous that I have planned for us; for although I am telling this story, you are reading it and as a member of the jury that is destined to root out my guilty soul much in the same way as a tooth puller wrenches out a rotten tooth, unfortunately it is your judgement not mine that is now of consequence._

_Therefore I send you my memoirs; scrawled sporadically over the years should this day ever be upon us, which regrettably it now is. Peruse them carefully and with the greatest of haste for time is no longer on our side, or rather it is no longer on mine. The hangman's noose is tightening around my neck and his shadowy figure hounds me, watching, waiting for my step to falter, my gaze to wander and my tongue to wag._

_Yours with the greatest of sincerity,_

_Phineas. T. Ketteridge_

1847

Gwent, Wales.

If you had happened upon the docks that morning, you would have seen a youth. Not an uncommon sight, as many men young and old frequent the harbours in search of work; porters, sailors, fisherman and pickpockets until they are a mere myriad of faces teeming and writhing at the quayside much like the fish struggling in their nets. The youth observed the cultural hub of the county with a contemplative air, relaxing his features slightly as the wind brushed aside his hair; he was tense. He was tall and gangly, with the air of one not fully matured, his long limbs gathered loosely around him; his hair, straight as a pin his mother would have said just a little too long, brushing his cheekbones and gathered into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. An odd style for a young man of his class. For he certainly had class, that was evident from the clothes he wore; an elegant frock coat, tailored and svelte worn over a satin shirt which tapered at the sleeves. His buckskin britches were tucked into leather riding boots lined and edged in maroon, sporting a mirror like surface; yes he was a far cry from the roughly hewn Dockers with their patched coats and rusty fob watches.

The youth rose from his perch on the edge of the sea wall and began his arduous trek home, skirting past the town and following the cliff path that led to the manor; he could easily have sent word for a carriage to collect him, the phaeton perhaps, but he relished in the walk, enjoying the brief respite from human company and taking pleasure in the solitude that he rarely attained at home. Reaching the fringes of his parent's wealthy estate he began to drag his feet slightly, scuffing his impeccable boot tips on the ground; he was not eager to arrive home. But home he did arrive to his parent's manor house one day to be his, or should I say mine. For you see I was that youth; Phineas. T. Ketteridge. The only child of Lord and lady Ketteridge of Gwent, Wales; known as a courteous if solitary young man of esteemed class and wealth. How little they knew of me.

There was nothing unusual about the manor that morning as I stepped over the threshold and into the opulent hall, for everything about the house was opulent, extravagant; if one was to observe it from the drive it would look quite unremarkable, built of locally sourced grey stone fronted with impressive picture windows on the first floor and large bays upon the second and third, each framed with delicately carved lacquered shutters and sweeping drapes. Its name Glynneath Manor was depicted above the double doors with the Welsh inscription 'Gwirionedd Urddasol Yw Ein Un Ni' below it; 'A Noble Truth Is Ours' I would soon begin to see those words as ironic, as the truth is never noble and it most certainly never resided in that house. Once inside the manor however it would soon become apparent that its inhabitants were not Welsh, for indeed neither my parents nor I were Welsh, my father hailing from Gloucestershire and my mother, Essex. The Welsh aristocracy if it could be said that there is such a thing, tend to favour a more comfortable, homely style meant to provide comfort and colour in such a desolate landscape; the English thrive in formality and classical elegance employed to impress rather than comfort and such was the style used to bedeck Glynneath Manor.

The hall was spacious and impressive with a high ceiling and generously proportioned windows emphasising the rooms natural light, as a guest's first impression would be formed here my parents had lavished the space with rich, opulent mahogany side tables and a crisp, lemon palette; classical details dotted the space in the form of Romanesque busts, colonnades and exquisitely formed balustrades. Four doorways led off from the hall to the kitchen, drawing room, library and laundry room respectively; where the lavish decor and air of expense continued. I undoubtedly favoured the library which was not frequented by my mother who preferred the music room or my father who was often closeted away in his study, but do not merely presume that I was lonely or idle with parents intent only upon their own affairs; far from it, my mother expressing her fear that without constant companionship I would become a social invalid took it upon herself to invite as many young lords and ladies as was physically possible to the manor. Leaving me with the awkward predicament of entertaining them, or as Catrin the parlour maid so eloquently put it, although not to my face, 'putting them t'sleep'.

In fact it was one of these young ladies that I have to thank for the opening of my eyes and the revealing of the truth; that young lady was Miss Ophelia Cornelia Durham. Miss Durham was a frequent visitor to our household, and in my mother's opinion a perfect candidate for the role of my wife; the daughter of a wealthy landowner 'Ophelia' as she insisted I call her was I must admit a lovely creature, known as the opiate of every young man in the county she was exquisite. Long opalescent blonde hair grazed defined cheekbones and porcelain skin, dove grey eyes gazed reproachfully from a bed of long, pale lashes; the slender column of her neck led to fragile collarbones, and long pianists fingers. She exuded an air of composure and refined elegance. Her breeding was impeccable. Most young men would have jumped through hoops and ridden through rings of fire for a mere look their way, but I was not your average youth and remain an enigmatic man; I was resolute, I would not marry her.

As expected father was not amused. 'You are a fool Phineas,' my father never was one to mince words. 'Perhaps so father' I replied my lip curling involuntarily 'but are we not all entitled to a little foolishness on occasion?' My father's jaw tightened, he was an entirely practical man who had no patience for what he called 'indecisiveness' and 'idealism', and therefore I thought to have a little fun with the old man. 'I have great plans father, I shall go to London and perhaps try my hand at art or composing...' I had no such plans but watching my father's face blossom from pallid pale to a crimson flush and finally a deep maroon made my heart sing, biting back a smirk I added 'I could travel...' leaving the statement open to retaliation, he did not disappoint. 'Oh really and what would your income total to, hmmm... The measly pittance that those false philanthropists in London would have you live by? Come now Phineas see sense I know that you are not unreasonable.' His voice held a touch of irritation, making me bristle; he was treating me as though I was a fly he wished to swat, how dare he?

I relaxed my shoulders and took a deliberate step back hoping to make it clear that I was not the threat here, observing as my father linked his fingers atop his desk crafted of the finest Spanish Mahogany; a good sign. I must admit I could not help but feel a little intimidated, Lord John Ketteridge struck an imposing figure; the muscles of his broad shoulders and strong jaw knotted ready to do battle, a shrewd and ruthless businessman this was a man who exuded an air of confidence and immovability, those large hands had clouted the side of my head often in my younger days eager to knock the impertinence out of my character. He was not a tall man but he was exceedingly heavy in stature, with dark hair slightly curled at the edges framing a square jaw; we could not have been more different my father and I, rumours had abounded at our arrival here shortly after my birth, speculations in regards to my parentage which had infuriated my father and caused my mother to become pale and withdrawn. His nose was straight, mine large and roman; his skin pallid and mine burnished to a golden hew yes you would have a difficult task in finding anyone as different as my father and I.

A sharp admonition of 'Stop daydreaming boy!' awakened me from my musings and, too late I realised that my father had been speaking to me. His irritation had now grown into his own personal breed of anger, an anger that had made a pair of young knees knock frequently in the past, and I felt the final tendrils of amusement slip slowly into the air which had grown electric with tension; this was no longer a game. As I left my father's study shortly afterwards I tugged angrily at my shirt cuffs a childhood habit that I did not care to break, and thought bitterly that the battle had been lost; it wouldn't have been the first time but I swore there and then that it would be the last.

After that fateful meeting my life began to slope distinctly downhill, Miss Durham and her parents spent so much of their time at the manor that it was beginning to be remarked upon and wherever I went in the county and beyond rumours and speculations followed at my heels. Although it had not formally been announced, news of the betrothal soon reached the ears of my extended family and they were forever dropping by unannounced and not so subtly hinting at 'what a lovely girl' she was, 'so composed and polite'; I was beginning to get heartily sick of it. But don't merely presume that throughout all this I was sitting around idly, twiddling my thumbs and awaiting my fate; no that was not my style and during that taxing month I could often be found in the library searching for a loophole, surely I had rights? Apparently not. Poring through book after book on subjects as various and diverse as matrimony and law it began to dawn on me that arrangements must have been made; surely it was not a coincidence that the girl's parents were now becoming involved, it also struck me as rather suspect when I realised that my parents had been insisting on many little trips to town of late. They were keeping me out of the house, out of their way; but if arrangements had been made then surely it must have been documented, evidence of our soon to be relationship. I began to hatch a plan.

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I congratulate you if you made it through all of that without falling asleep! Stay tuned for the next intallment, and remember that reviews are always welcome. Oh yes and one more thing, many thanks to my very first reviewer 'Tsui' cheers for taking the time to give me your feedback.

Yours,

Lord Brandybuck


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

I knew without a doubt that my father was the keeper of these damning documents; after all, he was a man naturally inclined towards dominance, an alpha male. He held a certain presence, which most men took notice of, realised that they could not compete and hastily bowed down to lick his boots clean. Sir Arthur Durham was one such man. Rather portly, with watery blue eyes and a weak chin he was not a man that you would immediately label as a wealthy land owner, but this pathetic facade belied a quick wit and a greedy mind; he was a man completely devoid of pride, which was fortunate as he had clawed his way up the social hierarchy by bowing down before others and suckling on their wealth and influence much as a leech suckles on a fresh wound. He was not a particularly cruel man but he was certainly not a courageous one.

So I had ascertained that my father must have the documents that I so wished to eradicate; now I faced the tricky question of where I would find them. His study was the first room to spring to mind, inside the desk amongst contracts and agreements pertaining to his own personal affairs; well I was soon going to be dealing with mine. Yes the study was a likely spot, but I would need time that, as was quickly becoming apparent, I lacked; I would need a good three hours perhaps more if I were to sieve through the contents of that cavernous desk with any sense of accuracy, and now I faced two options. I could wait for a suitable opportunity to present itself which knowing my father could take more than a month, or I could pick that suitable opportunity before it was ripe and risk its sour aftertaste; I had no choice, it would have to be the latter.

Needing a distraction I headed for the stables, which were adjacent to the small dairy about a quarter of a mile from the house; as I stepped into the secluded courtyard tucked away in the midst of the estate, it struck me just how different the lives of the servants and manual labourers that worked for my father were from my own. The small outbuildings that housed them were built of that same locally sourced grey stone and bordered on cramp, with tendrils of ivy embracing their fronts and half obscuring the windows; the atmosphere was simple and rather quaint, not entirely unpleasant. Children, too young to be placed in the village schoolhouse clung to their mother's skirts as the young master of the house, that is to say me walked by; even amongst these simpletons I did not escape the muffled whispers and curious, yet still wary stares which sparked a slight feeling of irritation in me. Was there nowhere that I could find peace?

Shaking my head I crossed the courtyard and entered the stables, watching with amusement as at the sight of me a young groom jumped to attention, dropped the saddle he was oiling unceremoniously on the floor and promptly turned bright red stumbling to retrieve it and muttering apologies under his breath. The humiliation still evident in his cheeks he led me to Samoset, my chosen mount and as he tacked him up attempted in vain to make conversation; 'He a fine horse sir, beau'iful conformation', I simply murmured my agreement I was not in the habit of talking to stable boys. 'I'll bet he's a right greyhound over the jumps, simply beau'iful'.

'Yes he is rather swift'.

Emboldened by my comment, he moved onto more personal matters 'a bit like the young mistress, you must be mighty proud of 'er'.

I frowned, 'young mistress?'

To his credit the lad soon realised that he had overstepped the mark, 'oh beggin' your pardon Master Phineas, but we's, that it to say me an' the other lads we just thought..' I cut him off icily, 'Well you thought wrong, the only mistress of Glynneath after my mother shall be one of my own choosing'. The groom stared at me then began to splutter apologies once more until I holding up a hand thrust the stallion's cheek towards him and instructed him to hold the bridle whilst I mounted. Scrambling to do as I asked and eager not to inspire any more fury on my part he led the beast out into the courtyard, jumping nervously as the temperamental animal tossed his head impatiently; tapping the crop against my calve I watched the proceedings once again with amusement, the lad evidently hadn't been at the job for long. Mounting with ease, I felt Samoset tense beneath me his flanks quivering with anticipation; then I eased the pressure and we were off with all the power and grace of an arrow freshly loosed from its bow.

As I gradually became used to the rhythm of the horse beneath me, I allowed my mind to wander again to my predicament. A distraction, I needed a distraction a matter urgent enough to occupy my father for at least an hour; then it hit me with all the force of a drunkard in a brawl. You see, a little over a week ago it came to my mother's attention that her expensive silver, a wedding present from an acquaintance had begun to go missing; now mother has always had an unreliable memory in fact she is quite scatterbrained and at first she simply thought that she had miscounted, but no there were definitely some of the smaller pieces absent, things that would be less likely to be missed such as spoons and plates but still worth a pretty penny none the less. They must have been stolen, and someone in the house was responsible. So, she dutifully took the matter to my father who had been steadily interrogating the servants since but to no avail; in fact he had just that morning announced that if the missing silver did not turn up by nightfall then first thing in the morning he would send for a constable who he had added ominously, would soon ascertain whose hands were less than clean. If I were to let slip that I had just this hour been to the stables and witnessed a young groom polishing not a saddle or harness but a fine piece of silver, then my father as I well knew would take it as a personal insult, summon the constable and interrogate the lad personally and thoroughly giving me just enough time to pilfer the documents I needed and have the satisfaction of watching them burn in the fireplace. Yes, I would that afternoon go to my father, and let him know of my 'discovery'.

The weight on my shoulders a little lighter I spurred Samoset on, relishing in the tightly packed muscles brooding beneath me awaiting release; I gave it. I let the great beast have his head feeling his stride lengthen and his neck arch proudly, he really was a magnificent animal the sort of horse I imagined a knight of old might have ridden into battle; a charger, and charge we did until we found ourselves in a sheltered glade, leafy and pleasantly cool deep within the estate. I reined Samoset in, giving a sharp tug of the reins when he tried yet again to surge forward; as he stepped elegantly into the glade, I relaxed in the saddle letting my feet slip through the stirrups, it had a wonderful atmosphere holding man and beast alike spellbound for a moment. I looked up into the great canopy of leaves hearing a clear and piercing note of birdsong somewhere in its depths, then glanced back down admiring the sunlit patterns glancing off Samoset's shoulder giving his obsidian hide a pleasing, dappled effect. A sharp and very feminine intake of breath awoke me from my musings, startling both me and the horse who skittered sideways and almost threw me out of the saddle; regaining my balance I glared furiously down at the young lady before me, Miss Durham had a startled and oddly guilty look on her face as though I had caught her doing something she shouldn't. Yet when I looked again her features were neatly arranged in an expression of polite surprise, and whilst she smoothly offered me her sincerest of apologies I looked her up and down casually.

She was wearing an exquisite dove grey dress of the finest silk, with overtones of darker grey towards the collar and sleeves which were edged with delicate lace trimmings that ended in ruffles near her waist; she wore a bonnet, a matching grey silk and lace ensemble tied with a ribbon under her chin, whilst her hair fell in elfin ringlets to her collarbones and was pulled back in a fashionable coiffure. She was clutching a small wicker basket lined with an embroidered handkerchief, so I presumed she had been picking flowers perhaps to press; she gave a rather embarrassed smile of one who is at a loss of what to say, we then stared awkwardly at each other for a moment each sizing the other up before, asking me the time, she suddenly seemed to be in a great hurry, making a show of putting a hand to her forehead and acting flustered saying she really ought to be off and that she did hope that I wouldn't mind if we continued this conversation over dinner as it was growing rather late. I excused her and narrowed my eyes at her retreating back, she was no fool I knew that much; I had interrupted something and I was determined to find out what.

Dismounting, I led Samoset over to the spot where she had been standing just in front of a weather-beaten oak. It seemed innocent enough. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a patch of some fern like plant headed with small, white almost lacy clusters; picking the head of one such plant I flattened my palm and offered it to my mount, feeling his velvet muzzle tickle my palm as he inhaled its scent only to exhale sharply and toss his head in a fitful manner. Odd, he was usually a greedy great beast it was his aristocratic blood I supposed, tossing the plant to the ground, he was merely becoming picky. Straddling the saddle once again, upon impulse I turned to the direction Miss Durham had left in; I stared at the pathway that she had not long ago tread upon and set my jaw, there was something decidedly queer about Miss Ophelia Cornelia Durham, it seemed that I was not the only one with secrets. And it was only once I had left the glade and was heading for the stable yard eager to execute my plan, that I realised something odd; there were no flowers growing in that small, secluded glade, not one.

An hour later traipsing up the long, winding drive I paused just short of the house and considered my plan. I would walk briskly and rather purposely to my father's study where he was bound to be and upon entering, adopt a severe expression and after beating about the bush a little, acting as though I were reluctant to betray the young lad I would finally tell my father all I knew. I mustn't act too eager; I would set the scene first, making sure that to any who might be watching I would look agitated and preoccupied, after all success lies in the detail. I stood there for a moment feeling the pale, spring sunlight warm my cheek, seeing the stables in my mind's eye, visualising the groom jumping from his seat and thrusting the silver cup behind his back the guilt evident on his face. Then I walked the final yard or so to the porch, smirking inwardly at the inscription and set my plan into motion. My scheme worked as rhythmically as clockwork; from the moment I stepped into the hall making sure that Walters our butler was there to witness the look of indecision on my face, to the point where my knuckles were rapping soundly on the solid study door and resounding for all to hear. 'Enter' came the preoccupied reply, making me glad that I had not waited for the perfect opportunity to present itself as from the sound of it my father was up to his elbows in stocks and investments; he would have been holed up in his study for weeks. I composed myself, arranging my features into a concerned and slightly indignant expression; after all, this ruffian had supposedly had the audacity to thieve my mother's silver right from under our very noses. Then I stepped over the threshold, and began to spin my lies.

I was right, my father was up to his elbows in stocks and investments, literally; and he was not pleased to see me. 'Yes, Phineas?' he inquired impatiently raising a heavy brow at the sight of me. 'I haven't the luxury of time', he added testily as I failed to answer him; inhaling, I steeled myself after all this was my only opportunity and I needed to take advantage of it.

'Father I paid a visit to Samoset, my hunter this morning', here I deliberately paused 'and I happened upon the groom, Jones I believe his name is', I paused again and heard my father exhale irritably; patience. He opened his mouth, his eyes hardening ready to reprimand me for wasting his time with petty complaints and trivial details; but I quickly cut him off.

'And I saw something that rather puzzled me, bothered me you see he was holding a piece of silver, up to the light polishing it with a rag. It was fine silver too you understand it made me wonder...' I tailed off waiting for the penny to drop, and a suspicion to take root in his mind; my father was no fool, and it did not take him long.

'At what time was this?' he inquired half rising from his seat, and already reaching for the line of bell pulls mounted on the wall.

'A quarter past ten,' I replied waiting with bated breath as he summoned Walters, the ring of the bell incessant and impatient as it resounded in some far off hallway; I stood for a moment, again schooling my features into a deliberate and somewhat sincere veneer. I harboured a deep dislike for Walters, completely unwarranted I assure you but despite this I had never quite been able to shake away my misgivings as they clung to my subconscious mind like a tick fat and soporiferous with blood, something about his manner caused my hackles to rise and my jaw to tense; a sort of insolence and superiority far above his station. He was my father's man; make no mistake, forever advising him upon matters just a little too personal to be discussed with a mere butler no matter how efficient he may be.

Speak of the devil, clipped and precise footsteps belayed the man's arrival and when bid to enter I watched his face closely for any sign of suspicion no matter how insignificant it may seem. Scanning his features I began to wonder if the hint of mockery I observed upon his aged and slightly obtuse face was merely my imagination at work, and that when he gave a curt nod with an intonation of 'My Lord...' here he caught sight of me '...Master Phineas may I be of service?' he was not hiding a devious and dangerously knowing expression. For knowledge is power, and the only one who would be in possession of any power in this little game of cat and mouse that I had been unwillingly thrust into, was going to be me. I shook my head briskly, a wise soul had once stated that 'to the man who is afraid, everything rustles'; it was true, I could feel the cold and potentially deadly tendrils of paranoia begin to take root in my mind tainting my judgement and decomposing my rationality until I could see only through a haze of suspicion. Who was really to blame for my predicament, this hated betrothal; my father, or perhaps another man entirely?

My father began to speak again, instructing Walters to summon the local constable with 'all haste yet an equal measure of discretion' then he turned his gaze once again to me. 'Phineas, you say that it was Jones the groom that you saw?' he spoke briskly, awaiting my answer.

'Yes father'.

'He is not aware that you saw him?'

'No, I do not believe so. When I showed no sign of suspicion he seemed quite relieved.' My father was obviously afraid that he had flown the coop as it were; of course he would have done no such thing considering the fact that he was completely innocent but my father need not know that. 'Well then, if what you say is true...' here he eyed me consideringly and for one heart stopping moment I feared that he intended to apprehend this 'criminal' with me I tow; thankfully the moment passed in a scattering of gravel thrown from a horse's hooves, and striding briskly to the window my father confirmed that the constable had indeed arrived. The low murmur of voices could be heard making their way up the main staircase, accompanied by the discreet tread of booted feet muffled by the carpet; there was a sharp rap upon the door, authoritative and solid against the oak, so unlike Walter's pernickety tapping. Here was a man who was not to be intimidated by the obvious wealth and opulence of the house around him, who was dedicated to his task and would not be leaving until it was complete; he would be thorough, perfect.

Constable Samuel Cardigan of the Gwent Constabulary located on the high street between Padgett's Laundrette and the Pharmacy was a remarkable man; tall and broad exceeding six ft, with a rather strong and silent sort of countenance which made him at once sympathetic and immovable. One could not imagine him ever being shocked or surprised by what he saw and heard on a daily basis, in fact the Wednesday before he had raided a baby farm and once again apprehended its operator Molly Dodd, a particularly stubborn reoffender but you would never have known it. He was the epitome of law-abiding, justice manifested and at that moment I was thanking my lucky stars that they had seen fit to send me such a duty bound man; if he was to interrogate the young stable lad it would take hours, little did I know that this Peeler was anything but a gift from God.

His hat held respectfully in the crook of his elbow, the constable set his measured gaze on my father; 'I hear you have need of me Lord Ketteridge' a local man, his unmistakeably Welsh accent seemed almost mocking as he completely overlooked me and acknowledged only my father. 'Ah yes, we have a case of theft my wife's MacIver Percival,' taking note of the constable's rather bewildered expression he elaborated 'that is to say silver, and very fine silver indeed a wedding present from some close friends of ours the Burdett-Coutts I'm sure you've heard of them, he's a banker'.

'I can't say I have My Lord but Gwent is a far cry from London, now when did this theft take place?' The constable had removed a small, leather backed notebook from his pocket and was waiting pencil poised for my father's answer. Shaking his head my father enlightened him 'no, no constable you shan't be needing that' he indicated the notebook 'we have the man right here on the estate, a local lad Jones I believe his name is,' he looked to me for confirmation which I gave in the form of a curt nod; 'caught in the act by my son Phineas' finally the constable took notice of me his eyes hovering over me and his gaze holding mine for a brief moment before he turned his attention once again to my father. I did not like the way that those eyes seemed to peer readily into my soul, the piercing blue orbs shining with a sort of unholy light excavating the innermost nooks and crannies of my mind leaving no stone unturned; but it was likely fancy, my own insecurities eating me away from the inside that must be it.

A quarter of an hour later, watching the trap descend the natural incline of the drive I could not resist letting a small, triumphant smile settle upon my lips; all had gone to plan and now I was able to turn my attention to the task at hand. I glanced thoughtfully at the grandfather clock set inside an alcove beside the bookcase, twelve 'O'clock I had a good hour and a half before the bell would ring for luncheon; I doubted I would be missed, mother was busy entertaining none other than Mrs Durham in the parlour waited upon by Catrin and several other parlour maids, naturally I would have to keep my eyes and ears open for any of the other servants, in particular Walters that accursed butler would have to be watched, there was little doubt in my mind that he held me in a less than favourable light.

Striding across the room I surveyed the great desk taking note of the keyholes set into each drawer, my heart sinking I took a step forward and grasped an intricately moulded brass handle admiring the way it gleamed in the rich midday sunlight; giving it a slight tug, I felt a painful jolt in my chest, it would not be moved. Panicking somewhat I gave it a sharp yank, wincing as after its initial reluctance the drawer glided outwards upon well oiled runners and stopped abruptly, jarring my wrist. Relief flooded throughout my body as I realised that it was not locked merely stiff, observing the contents of this first drawer and sifting through what looked to be a neat pile of letters I took a closer look; they were all personal post, letters and correspondences from friends and acquaintances nothing official. Evidently my father ruled his paperwork with the very same iron fist with which he ruled all other aspects of his life; everything was structured and neatly ordered, and if the remaining drawers were set out as such this would take less time than I had thought.

I began to stack the papers again, cursing my haste; I would have to proceed more carefully, take note of the order in which the documents were stacked and replace them as neatly as I found them. My father could smell a rat a mile away, and if I did not proceed with prudence his nose would invariably lead him to me. I moved on to the drawer to my left, this time giving it a good yank and watched with satisfaction as it slid open without complaint; removing the first sheaf of papers I glanced over them with disinterest, nothing for me there. I shifted my attentions again to the drawer to my left, and after working methodically in this manner for twenty minutes was able to exclude the entire right half of the front of the desk. With a heavy sigh, I grimaced at the remaining sixteen drawers to the front of the desk; the task was already becoming tedious and I had not even begun to search the back yet; running my eyes over the great mahogany expanse of monotony that awaited me, I stared deliberately at each drawer in turn. I seemed to have an absurd notion that if I stared at those drawers for long enough and with enough intensity my gaze would be drawn to the one which I sought; however I felt no inexplicable lure and I began yet again to work my way systematically through this copious mountain of paper.

An hour later I stood back and surveyed my handy work, my face marred with a frown; there was nothing wrong with the desk and its contents, indeed there was not a single piece of paper out of place. No, the one thing that concerned me was the document, or the lack of it thereof; there was nothing, not one thing in the entirety of that desk pertaining to marriage, not a certificate, not a contract not even a letter of consent and I was not pleased. In fact I was bitterly disappointed, although I thought ruefully, I had known less than halfway through that I would find nothing of note; I glowered at the keyholes, abhorring the way that desperation had overruled any smidgen of instinct or common sense that I possessed. Of course there was nothing there I thought, curling my lip; if there was did you really believe that he would neglect to lock the drawers? I have already mentioned that my father was no fool, but whether or not I have been blessed with his wisdom remains to be seen.

Tugging irritably at the cuffs of my shirt sleeves, I left the study and began to descend the stairs pausing at the window overlooking the drive; father and the constable had returned, with the addition of Grail the gamekeeper who was holding a struggling figure by the collar. The young stable lad had turned a rather distasteful shade of puce and was hollering his innocence at the top of his lungs, sending gravel flying in all directions as he dug his heels into the ground. All things considered I was surprised that he put up such a fight, I had been expecting a white faced youth stuttering and pleading for his release not this... this... hellion. Frowning yet again, I pondered the possibility however slight that he would be believed; I was not particularly well liked around these parts, the nobles viewed me as somewhat queer and the locals found me positively intimidating. But no, my father held far too much influence over the local magistrates and law clerks to have his word slandered in court, especially for the benefit of a peasant. I paused at the ornate silver mirror, ensconced at the turn of the staircase; I relaxed my features into an expression of inquiry and curiosity, after all it would not do to fall at the last hurdle. Opening the front door and descending the weathered stone steps to the drive a moment later, I was met with a sight which set my teeth on edge; my father had caught sight of me and was smiling smugly, triumphantly. I was painfully reminded of his study, the desk and those curiously unlocked drawers; to me there was a hint of mockery etched into that smile, he knew.

* * *

The plot thickens... As Phineas spirals into new heights of paronoia, he will find that the line between reality and fiction can be at times disconcertingly thin. I do love toying with my characters' emotions and exploiting their fears, aren't I cruel. :) As always reviews are welcome, and criticism no matter how constructive.

Yours,

Lord Brandybuck.


End file.
